Living Lore
by Silver Pard
Summary: London dreams of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
1. Living Lore

A/N: "221b is possessive and tries to eat Sherlock and John when they want to move out." Scary and/or creepy was the order of the day, something I can't judge in the slightest (ratings go along with that, I believe), so let me know if it worked at all. (Where did all my crackfics go? That's it, I'm taking the next Unicorn!Sherlock prompt.)

* * *

There has always been habitation by the river Thames.

The City of London is no bigger than a square mile. _London_ is a different matter, grows and grows, stretches and sprawls, meets other cities and towns and villages and hamlets by the river and absorbs them, takes their names and legends and memory, lets them become London in return - whether they want it or not.

(On the oldest stones of London the wyrm is scribed. Smear it with blood and see what wakes.)

London is like a dragon (is a dragon) and even asleep, the dragon devours.

(people, cities, lives, loves, names, hope, Time)

London lives. London breathes. London sleeps. London Dreams.

* * *

Baker Street of Marylebone, City of Westminster, adjoined to the west of the City of London, is young (very young) as London goes, and 221 Baker Street younger still. But it has Lore (like Fleet Street's barber and Bell Yard's baker, like Highgate Hill, _turn again, thrice-mayor_, Edgware Road and the gallows-dance, Newgate Street, the Dead Man's Walk) buried, waiting.

221b does not have tenants, it has momentary irritations in its (_flesh_) rooms. Longer-lived than the rats between its walls, but not by much.

221b has dark dreams, has bones in its mortar like a piece of Old London - some would brick in a cat, some would bury stillborn infants, some would wall in a child (the Tower took two princes, and beneath the stair their bones shriek and sigh and turn _rat-a-tat-tat_ against the stone) - and shaped like Old London it demands like a dragon.

Tenants do not stay in 221b. Passing _moving pieces of flesh_ stay in 221b. (They leave after a month, two, three. They cite the wallpaper and the expense of rent and the creak of old floorboards at night as their reasons for moving, but not the dreams, the shadows, the aching sense of discontent, the raking of bone fingers inside the walls.)

221b sleeps uneasily, is Waiting.

(is a house of Lore without that which makes it)

* * *

_young-male-human-dark-hair_ enters 221b, accompanied by the hand-wringing _old-female-human-grey-hair_, keeper of the Deeds. _Flesh_, sighs the bones in the foundations.

The floorboards note his entrance just the once, sing and then fall silent. 221b stirs itself to take note of this unusual _moving piece of flesh_, feels his eyes, noting everything that can be seen (nothing important).

A human conversation ensues, and 221b examines _young-male-human-dark-hair_ by his feet on its floor, by his hands brushing its walls, by the pleased curve of his mouth and it stirs, it almost Wakes.

_young-male-human-dark-hair_ sleeps within 221b that night. 221b touches his dreams and finds him dreaming of London, finds knowledge (finds The Knowledge) in his thoughts, finds the City, _the City_, alive and living in his head.

221b thinks of Lore.

(_half_, 221b tells its landlady, dreaming of being lost in streets long forgotten. _half, where is the rest?_)

The next day _young-male-human-dark-hair_ has to look for a flatmate.

* * *

"Oh, this could be very nice," says _young-male-human-haunted-eyes_ and 221b Wakes.

* * *

_young-male-human-dark-hair_ and _young-male-human-haunted-eyes_ have Names, like Marylebone, like City of Westminster.

All humans have names, of course, but Names are different.

221b has only known of a few humans who had Names, like _Henry Mayhew_ and _Charles Pearson_, like _Dick Whittington_; the mapmakers, shapers and guardians of the City. Like _Sweeney Todd_, like _Jack the Ripper_ and _Spring-Heeled Jack_, the Lore of the City.

They are called _Sherlock Holmes_ and _John Watson_ and they are Becoming. They are not _moving pieces of flesh_, they are not humans, they are pieces of 221b, the Lore it has been missing since its foundations were laid.

221b feels them, their lives making marks on its walls, seeping into its bricks and mortar, and soon it cannot even dream of a time when they were not there.

_look look listen,_ 221b sings to London, Sleeping and Awake. _living Lore within me, living Lore called Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, 221bBakerStreet-Marylebone-CityofWestminster is living Lore._

_SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson _whispers London, begins to fold them into its history, its present, its future, its Lore. _SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson__, of 221bBakerStreet-Marylebone-CityofWestminster, SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson of 221bBakerStreet. of London._

221b holds Sherlock Holmes and John Watson close, safe and precious. Within 221b they are inviolate, within 221b they cannot be touched, cannot be harmed (cannot be changed by anything other than themselves).

It worries when they are gone for longer than a night, groans and sighs and becomes shadowed and dark (_old-female-grey-hair_ will tell them when they come back 'the old place missed you', and never know how right she is), but London comforts it, tells it of where they sleep, tells of daring exploits and how _SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson_, inseparable to its mind, hunt and hide in its streets, its boroughs and cities.

The times they leave London entirely are a torture on another level entirely. London listens to the gossip, to the wires, to the radio waves, to the data streams, brings back news in wind-tossed papers and homeless whispers, says _SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson _seek this or hunt that in a place this close or that far from London. The most 221b can understand is that they are Away, they are making lore in cities and towns and at waterfalls that London knows in the speech and customs of its humans but are Not-London; they are making ties (legends, whispers, anecdotes) apart from 221b.

It lets them go, of course, every time, because always, always they come back, even if it takes three years. They come back. (They must come back.) They are its history, its worth, the reason it will always be known to London.

* * *

"Sussex," says Sherlock Holmes, no longer young or dark haired. "I've been thinking about retiring. About beekeeping. About Sussex." He looks at John Watson, smiling, mellowed by Time and proof of his worth. John Watson grins back.

221b recognises a Name, even when it knows nothing of human speech. _Sussex_, it asks London. _SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson think of Sussex, what is Sussex?_

_Not-London_, London replies.

221b shudders with rage.

* * *

221b closes its doors, its windows, swells their frames to hold them tight and locks them. London closes its communications, ignores electrical screams from within 221b, texts and data streams.

(London keeps its Lore. Buildings can crumble, can burn, can be bombed, but the Lore remains.)

221b shares dreams with its human parts, tells them _Lore, you are my Lore_, but it does not think they understand, even though they are part of 221b. Perhaps they are too human to share City-dreams.

(But they are 221b, the moving parts of 221b, how can they not understand?)

They keep trying to leave.

_Lore, you are my Lore, you are London Lore. not Sussex lore. you are SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson of 221bBakerStreet. not of Sussex Downs, never of Sussex Downs._

Their fingers rake its walls, their bodies (soft, fragile, human) throw themselves against the doors, they try and break the windows.

_listen listen listen, you are my Lore, why aren't you listening, you are London, you are part of __**London**__, SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson, inseparable from each other, inseparable from me. inseparable from the City._

Within 221b they are inviolate, within 221b they cannot be touched. Even Time cannot touch them unless London allows. (Have they never noticed, SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson, the difference between them and their friends and allies, how much more gradual their aging is, how much easier it is for them to remain in the game, hunting criminals, hunting across ever-changing London?)

_listen SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson, stay stay __**stay**__, I am home, you are home, you are me, foundations cannot move._

They scream and scream and scream.

_SherlockHolmes&JohnWatson of 221bBakerStreet_ London says, in the graffiti on the walls, in the words carved into stone, chalked on the pavement. _bones in the old buildings, blood in the mortar. all living Lore stops being flesh, becomes brick and stone._

_mine,_ says 221b, takes the bones.


	2. Genius Loci

**Prompt: **Five times London showed Its love for our hardworking boys, one time they showed their love for London.

...pretty much the same 'verse as Living Lore except 221B has yet to eat anybody. (Actually, might explain the eating thing.)

Random information: Leake Street changes font (and sometimes colour) every sentence, the Thames' words are blue-grey and the LMA speaks in Courier New. Available with formatting intact here: http:/ archiveofourown . org /works/269012

* * *

How are you, then, London?

Mind the Gap

...splash of double-decker red...

...horse hooves on cobbles...

these are the terms and conditions of carriage:

..._fire, fire!_

river at low tide...

high tide...

sixty-one nails, my lord

...mortar dust...

...ink...

whack it, boys, whack it!

...blood...

stone, brick, wood, mud

memory, history, time.

_full of people. raining._

London is patterned by its inhabitants, by its streets, by the tide, by the Thames. It is constantly aware of the life within it, but very rarely as anything more. Life is London, London is life: this it understands.

Humans have their own flow – rush hour, lunch hour, the constant cycle of the Underground – and London knows their times the way it knows its Lore, with a familiarity that never becomes contempt. It knows them all, every one of the millions of humans to make a home/job/life within it, but it regards them in much the same way it does the pigeons, the rats, the foxes: they are London. Nothing more, nothing less.

10 Downing Street will always know its occupants by name and habit, but London will call them Prime Minister until it decides otherwise. Buckingham Palace knows how to track blood to the second cousin twice removed, will call its inhabitants by childhood nicknames long put aside, but London will only ever care for the Name the crown meets in Westminster Abbey.

There are exceptions, of course.

Richard Whytyngdone was always Dick Whittington to London, wherever he happened to reside. It sent him cats constantly, always good ratters and mousers. (He grew to like them eventually.)

History and legend to London are often the same thing; a sharp knife (_Good Service!_) might be able to find the divide, but not London.

(London has no human sense of time. It can rarely be bothered with the Mayor of London, but for its Lord Mayor and his pageantry it will pause. It calls them all Dick Whittington, ignores Mansion House's gentle reminders: _this is not Richard, Richard was three hundred and sixteen years dead before I was built. Richard is five hundred and eighty-seven years ashes and dust._

_my Lord Mayor, _London says fiercepetulantsad, and sends a cat to Downing Street.)

When Jack went hunting, London shrouded him in fog and mist, stretched shadows out further than light could reach to give him somewhere to shelter, hands wet with blood. It muffled his tread on the cobbles, flung his voice and disoriented his hunters.

186 Fleet Street still remembers Sweeney Todd's tread on its floors, and whispers of snapping necks and open arteries to 7 Bell Yard, which responds with the scent of meat pies. London is never quite sure – it ties them with blood and history; they remind London constantly that they are tied. Are they inseparable because they choose to be or because London thinks they should be?

(Never mind that there was no human called Sweeney Todd until London decided there was.)

London doesn't need Montague Street to tell it where Sherlock Holmes is lodged, or Southhampton Place's worried murmurs that John Watson is staring at an blank screen. 221B Baker Street _aches_, like the sight of a cradle never to be used, and London _knows _– like it knows its rivers, its streets, its Names – where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson should be.

And yet, it is still like nothing it has felt in centuries:

It is like six ravens in the Tower, like _pass, (Queen Elizabeth's) Keys and all's well_, like Gog and Magog standing outside Guildhall.

It is like a Naming, like a taking, like City of London meets City of Westminster to the west, meets the Tower hamlets in the east, stretches north and consumes Shoreditch and Finsbury, crosses the river and claims Southwark.

It is like a sudden jump in the constant flow of the Underground and the tides of the Thames, it is an extra beat in the ceaseless, ever-steady rhythm of London.

That is what it is like for London, when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet in 221B Baker Street and agree that it is their place.

* * *

_221B Baker Street, Marylebone, City of Westminster_

[Custodi Civitatem Domine]

When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are five minutes gone on the first of what will be many adventures, London speaks to 221B Baker Street.

_you will love them_, London says.

_yes,_ 221B Baker Street says, giddyeagerdelighted, barely restrained. London gets the sense that it wants say _of course_ but doesn't quite dare. The idea amuses it, distantly. Parts of it are amused, anyway. _yes._

_you will protect them. no harm comes to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson within you. attacks from outside **do not touch them –** bullet, fire, bomb, **nothing** if you can help it._

_yes, yes_.

_you will be a home_, London says. _not a flat/workplace/temporary accommodation. understand?_ It awaits the answer with something like worry: so few residences _would _understand.

_mine_, 221B Baker Street says slowly at last. _mine to shelter and keep – for the sake of London._

London pretends it didn't hear how hastily tacked on the end of that sentence was. _yes, _it says.

_I will make them happy_, 221B Baker Street says with sudden determination, with something like wisdom (how very young the street is, how new the building, number and Name). It is not what London asked for, of course, but perhaps it is what it meant all the same.

_if they are happy to be yours, they are yours to keep_, London says, like it doesn't know the shape of legends.

So very new, this piece of London, it says, _they are like the Lord Mayor's cat and the Ripper and the Tyburn Tree and the Tower. and they are mine, are me, I am part of the Lore?_

_you are London_, London says, all the explanation it ever needs.

* * *

_every green badge hackney carriage_

(London takes many shapes.

There is the Bag Lady, who is all bag ladies, part of London since the first old woman told the dark why she was crying. There is the Beggar King, who is not all beggars, but is with them at the end, whether they leave him by dying in the gutter or finding a home.

And then there is the Black Cab.)

London is very fond of its cabbies. Their livelihoods are made through knowing London, loving London, letting it into their heads.

They must be able to decide quickest and most sensible route instantly in response to a customer's request, taking all traffic conditions into account. They must know every landmark and place of interest within a six mile radius of Charing Cross – streets, squares, historic buildings, clubs, restaurants, hospitals, hotels, theatres, embassies, parks, railway stations, police stations, government, public and diplomatic buildings, courts, cemeteries, sports and leisure centres, schools and colleges... and the order in which any of those appear, the names and order of the side streets, as well as the junctions, roundabouts, crossings and traffic signals along any route.

It will take at least twelve tries and three to four years before the Knowledge is theirs but once it is –

Taxi drivers are as close to London as humans can get, as close to humans as London can get, curled in their heads, constantly whispering its changing topography.

If you want to get anywhere in London, you want a black cab, and there is always one ready for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

John Watson thinks the reason the fare is always waved away is because of _Shadow-King-Oracle-_Mycroft Holmes but he doesn't need to do anything, not with London whispering _mine, me, ours, _among its usual sprawling histories, interconnecting street names and random bits of lore.

(Ask a cabbie about popular Shaftesbury Avenue and he could tell you: built in the late 19th century (1877-86) to provide a traffic artery between St Giles and Soho, named for Anthony Ashley Cooper, the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, runs north-east from Piccadilly Circus to New Oxford Street and crosses Charing Cross Road at Cambridge Circus.

The statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus was originally called the Shaftesbury Monument, and is not in fact Eros at all, but the Angel of Christian Charity. It's said that if you propose by the statue at midnight, your marriage will be happy forever.

Of the original seven theatres built along the avenue, the surviving six appear in this order: Lyric, Apollo, Gielgud, Queen's, Palace, Shaftesbury (originally The Princes Theatre, not to be confused with the earlier, demolished Shaftesbury).

In the evening, street artists gather outside the Natwest bank at the Piccadilly end to paint portraits of the tourists.

There are nine pubs and/or bars directly on the avenue, the nearest Tube stations are Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square...

London also says that it has never found anything it couldn't say in quotations and each theatre has its own voice and favourite type of dramaturgy, but they tend not to mention that.)

Like will always know like – _you know every street in London, you know exactly where we are _– and cabbies know how to read London, they know what it is saying.

("Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you."

Well, frankly, he was a bloody awful cabbie.)

* * *

_Leake Street, South Bank, Waterloo, Lambeth_

[Spectemur Agendo]

Leake Street has become a multi-layered murmur of voices, paint and ideas. It greets London with a fat cheerful green heart, followed quickly by a slightly more respectful **Α********Ω**.

London ignores it to touch the edges of the nearest graffiti artists' minds (press too hard with even the slightest bit of its attention upon the unprepared, anything more than a breath, and Bedlam remembers itself in mortal flesh) with an image of what it wants.

?**?**_?_ Leake Street says, puzzled, as they begin.

It takes hours, Leake Street occasionally pleading with London to loosen its hold on its artists a little – _hungry, Raz is hungry, let him eat – water, let them have water, London_,_ **London!**_

_hush,_ London says, slackens its grip when mistakes start to be made, sends away the tired with aching heads and confused memories, entices new artists with the smell of fresh paint and the adrenaline of a chase – _why am i here, what am i doing_, every one of them wonders for a split-second, the moment before they pick up a can and join the rest.

_don't like this_, Leake Street says resentfully, as an N fills with coats of arms (_Domine Dirige Nos... Unitas Efficit Ministerium..._), as one O is filled with landmarks and the underline begun with the L joins the other O and begins to take on the curve and colour of the Thames. _**mine**_,_ London. you're hurting them._

_you are me,_ London says. _what's yours is mine_

_and what's yours is still yours_, Leake Street says darkly, jagged words stinking of stale urine.

_exactly, _London says. Sometimes it thinks it was a bad idea to give Leake Street over to the urban artists; they've taught it insolence.

_they won't even see it_, Leake Street complains. London tastes crumbling brick and can't tell if the disappointment at the idea comes from it or Leake Street.

_connectivity, continuity,_ London says. _it will spread, it will be known to all of you/us/me._

Leake Street grumbles, but London knows it is pleased for the attention the art brings, that people will stop and stare and try to work it out.

Various permutations of the basic idea begin to appear everywhere, painted on bridges, walls, trains...

The hastily covered snicker of John Watson and the wry twitch of Sherlock Holmes' mouth when they see Sally Donovan ordering a new officer to paint over the **keep calm and call the deducing duo **on the wall of New Scotland Yard is enough for London.

But it hopes that one day they will have cause to see the idea that has its own wall on Leake Street.

London

*heart*

Holmes & Watson

* * *

_Inner London_

Sherlock Holmes sulks, and London frets uneasily, without a discernible cause, the way it has only a few times in its history.

_stars_, 221B says brightly. _stars make John Watson smile._

_stars,_ New Scotland Yard agrees distractedly. _my officers laugh over Sherlock Holmes and stars._

_context,_ London demands. _understanding._ It has a greater chance of getting such a thing from New Scotland Yard of all buildings – from the very beginning of its creation the humans within it have always focussed on things requiring the understanding of context, connections – of humanity.

_busy_, New Scotland Yard says flatly. _someone intends harm, London._

_someone always intends harm, _London says impatiently, bothered by a not-sense of waiting (memory of Pudding Lane and clear night and red morning).

_to you, London. I cannot neglect my duty to you, even _for_ you._

**__****__****_stars, _**the Thames says when Sherlock Holmes studies a corpse on its banks.

_stars? _London says, trying to find where in itself Alex Woodbridge called home.

**__****__****_his last thoughts were of stars, I took the memory of them as it was offered to me. _**Then, because it can rarely resist the urge to needle London, **__****__****_stars as they used to be above us, do you remember, londinium? before you poisoned me._**

_love,_ London says uneasily. _love you._

(That is not how London says it, of course. It says _mother fox guarding cubs, pigeon pair courting anew each year, man whispering 'sometimes i love you so much i think it will break me', woman smiling when she sees her dearest friend._)

**__****__****_human-love, _**says the river, pitiless, implacable. **__****__****_city-love, _**says the river, dismissive.

_love you,_ London repeats. _inseparability, you/me. circle has no beginning._

**__****__****_if they come to me, I will take them from you, lundenwic. because you love them, because I can._**

(This is how London hears it: _childless mother, mated swan alone on the bank, widow washing clothes never to be worn again. _It is hurt/pleased that their history is enough that the Thames would warn it.)

_stars,_ London says, and _thank you, _and turns away.

Stars make John Watson smile. They make the inhabitants of New Scotland Yard grin while at their tireless work. Sherlock Holmes thinks of stars (thinks 'connection/context') as he thinks of Alex Woodbridge, as he goes about his hunting.

If Sherlock Holmes wants stars, London will give him stars. Throughout London, Wandsworth to Southwark, Westminster to Tower Hamlets, lights go out. Above, stars London has not seen in a hundred years or so are revealed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Thought you didn't care about-"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

* * *

_40 Northampton Street, Clerkenwell, Finsbury, Islington_

[We Serve]

The London Metropolitan Archives contains some forty-five miles of archives, modern records, plans, audio-visual and printed material in its strong-rooms, dating from 1067. It covers architecture, cartography, medicine, education, transport, migration, science and technology, law and order, religion, customs, campaigning activities...

_listen_, London says.

«Λονδινιο,» the Archives greets in its cool, dry, manifold voice, giving only a fraction of its attention. «_Londino_, _Londinium_, etc. Origin undetermined. Possible etymology: non-mythic: Pre-Celtic, _(P)lowonida_, Indo-European roots _plew-_, 'flow', 'swim' or 'boat', and _nejd-_, 'flow'. Suggestion: 'boat river' or 'swimming river', applicable to the Thames when too wide to ford; settlement acquires suffix _-on-jon_. _Lowonidonjon_ and either _Lōondonjon_ or _Lōnidonjon_ becomes _Lūndonjon_ and hence _Lūndein_ or _Lūndyn_. Status undetermined. Cross-reference:»

_enough. **listen**_, London says.

«Listening. ("please state the nature of your enquiry") ("how may we be of service?")»

_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, NW1/W1, _London says.

«221 Baker Street: Reference: GLC/AR/BR/06/056623 (Parent: GLC/AR/BR/06) Dates of Creation: 1921-1968; files available for general access–»

_yes/no, _London says.

The reply is almost insulted: «("please specify") [13th century. Directly or via French _spécifier_ – late Latin _specificare –_ _specificus _(see specific)]»

London considers how to put it into terms the building will understand. _information,_ it says at last. _reference. archive._

«form? [OED n.(3): type or variety] ("please specify")»

_all,_ London says. _everything, _London says.

«Please refine (expectations) terms.»

_seek, obtain, protect and preserve all information pertaining to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of 221 Baker Street, _London says patiently.

«Understood,» remarks the Archives. «Immortalise. /ɪˈmɔː.təl.aɪz/ 3rd person present singular of _immortal_ ['deathless', late 14c., from Latin _immortalis_ from _in-_ 'not' (see in-(1)) + _mortalis _'mortal' (see mortal (adj.)). In reference to fame, literature, etc., attested from 1510s].»

_yes,_ London says._ immortalise._

* * *

_King Street, Cheapside, City of London_

[Domine Dirige Nos]

"Okay," John says at last. "I give up. What _are _we doing here?"

"This is the exact centre of London," Sherlock says. He considers the statement for a moment. "Give or take a few steps in any direction."

"...Okay," John says slowly. "I'll take your word for it. ...What's that got to do with anything?"

Sherlock, typically, ignores him. "If you were to try and balance the City of London upon the head of a pin, here is where it would balance. Just the City, mind, not _London_."

"That's very interesting," John says mildly. "But does it explain why I'm standing here at six in the morning on my day off?"

"The centre is equidistant between Ludgate Hill and Cornhill – both traditional divisions of the City and ancient mounds of some significance," Sherlock continues, hands in pockets as he starts to lead them south to Cheapside.

"Spooky," John says, before adding plaintively, "Can I at least get a cup of tea before the history lesson?"

"_Traditionally speaking_, the _heart _of London is considered to be the London Stone on Cannon Street – we'll visit later, spend the appropriate amount of time on each potential route, don't worry – and for the purposes of measuring distances to and from London, it's Charing Cross –"

"That's a no, then," John sighs.

Sherlock scowls. "Pay attention, John. This information could be useful one day."

"Some of us expect the taxi drivers to learn the Knowledge so we don't have to," John says, but he settles into a more attentive stance as he walks. "Going to teach me how to automatically track the likely route of a fleeing cabbie, then?"

"That's one potential use of this information, yes," Sherlock sniffs.

"What else is there?" John asks.

"If you're ever kidnapped–"

"Again," John points out with some irritation.

"Again," Sherlock agrees, and continues: "You will hopefully be able to determine where you are regardless of attempts to deceive you. Not to mention the effect on the brain: London taxi drivers have larger hippocampi."

"...Anything else?"

"It's fun," Sherlock says, leans down and snatches a discarded _Metro _from the pavement. "Ask and London will provide," he says. "Didn't you say something last night about 'if I wanted to listen to a violin wailing I'd go watch the professionals, where at least I might recognise a tune?'"

"To be fair," John says, ignoring the page thrust under his nose, "I'm not likely to be able to name anything the Symphony Orchestra is playing either."

"It's a very good thing we will be visiting many theatres and music halls in the process of your education, then."

"Oh, wonderful," John says, but his mouth quirks upwards all the same. Sherlock's face is alight with the kind of fervour that usually requires a serial killer to prompt and he's never seen his friend's genius express itself in a manner quite so benign before. He goes with the flow (of Sherlock, of London).

("You love this place," he marvels when they arrive (home) back at 221B, footsore, tired and smiling. "This city."

"Of course I do," Sherlock says, looking bemused. "That's why I'm teaching you. _What _I'm teaching you."

"To love London with my feet?" John teases.

Sherlock's expression loses its animation, becomes still and cold. "If you'd prefer not–"

"No," John says quickly. "I mean yes. I mean, I'll walk every square mile of London with you, if you want. Wouldn't want to lose an advantage when in a kidnapping, after all."

"You'll regret saying that," Sherlock promises, grinning.

"I won't," John says, and he means it.)


End file.
